


The Love of Oranges

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: Episode Related, Episode Tag, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-25
Updated: 2012-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-30 03:19:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray K, Fraser, and an orange at Christmastime.  Takes place after "Good for the Soul."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Love of Oranges

Don’t let anyone tell you cops don’t know how to party, or at least make a lot of noise when they’re with their own and it’s safe to let down their guard.  This year’s Christmas party is especially noisy, or at least, it’s sure as hell noisier than the awkwardness-festivals the Lieutenant back at my old district used to make us suffer through.  It’s like we’re celebrating something besides the holiday, although I’m not sure what, exactly.  Nailing Warfield, maybe, because that’s a bizarre Christmas present no one would have ever dreamed of.  Or maybe the fact that we’re not burying Fraser in a wooden box, because he may not officially belong to to 27th but everyone considers him one of ours, maybe more than they consider me one of ours—theirs—whateverthefuck.  For the fact that Fraser’s still in one piece, I’m saying a few extra _thank yous_ to someone up there I don’t normally talk to myself, and also for the fact that Fraser’s still _here_ , still giving us a chance after we disappointed the hell out of him again.  Still hoping we’ll live up to his impossible standards.  Which, I don’t know whether that makes me want to punch him or hug him more.  But it don’t matter right this minute, because right this minute I’m too busy being glad he’s here.

 

Except, speaking of which, where’s he at?  I scan the room for that red tunic, but I don’t see him.  Can’t have left, though, because I’m wearing his hat, and the Mountie doesn’t leave his hat behind, no matter what.  What he might have done, though, is snuck out to get some air or some quiet or both, because Fraser is, like, the most introverted extravert I’ve ever heard of.

 

I stick my head out the back entrance, and sure enough, there he is, sitting on the cold concrete steps in just his uniform, no overcoat, like the December air ain’t _fucking cold_.  He’s got an orange in his hands, neatly stripping the peel off with those way-too-competent fingers.

 

He looks up at me.  I offer him his hat.  He nods, and since his hands are full, I set it down on the step next to him.  I could put it on his head, but that seems like _taking a liberty_ , and honestly, I’m surprised he put up with me snatching it in the first place.  Also, I like the shine of the city lights on his glossy dark hair.  I sit myself down on the step next to him, too, other side.  Sneak a glance at him to see if he’s got his statue face on, the one that says he’s too polite to tell you to fuck off but he really wants to be alone right now.  As opposed to the other statue face, the one that means that if it were me, I’d be punching a wall or busting out in tears. I’ve never quite figured out, when he locks down on his emotions like that, whether he needs to be left alone or needs someone to shake him out of his shell, and to tell the truth, it kind of freaks me out when he gets like that.  Like looking at someone standing on the ledge, not knowing if reaching out a hand is going to make him jump.

 

But right now, Fraser’s not doing the statue thing, just the quiet thing.  So I keep quiet, too, and just watch him peel that orange and carefully pry it open, strip off a single section and put it into his mouth.  Wish I still smoked, so I’d have an excuse to put something in my own mouth, but I got nothing in my pockets, not a toothpick or a pen or a stick of gum.  So I bite my tongue and watch Fraser slide orange sections between his lips, one by one, and I swear to God it’s a good thing it’s so damn cold out here, ‘cause otherwise I might just go up in flames where I’m sitting.

 

He’s about halfway through the orange when he turns his head and smiles at me, like he’s happy just to be sitting here in silence freezing his butt off with me, you know?  There’s no way I can sit tight with him looking at me like that, so to keep from doing something stupid and dangerous, I flash him a goofy grin and swipe a piece of his orange.

 

He raises an eyebrow at me, but it’s the amused eyebrow-raise, not the sarcastic one, and he doesn’t make a move to defend his orange.  I grin at him and pop the section in my mouth.

 

“Jesus, Fraser, this thing is rank!”  I nearly spit it out on the ground, but I wasn’t raised in a barn despite what some smartasses might say, so I swallow the sour, fermented-tasting mess.  “How can you eat that?”

 

“I’m sorry, Ray,” he says.  “I should have warned you that this is a rather unfortunate specimen of a navel orange.’

 

“You can say that again.  I mean, I admit I’m not a big one for fruits and vegetables, but even I know what an orange is supposed to taste like.”  And I suddenly wonder if it’s possible that Fraser _doesn’t_ know.  I mean, they’ve got shipping in the Yukon, right?  Plus he’s been in Chicago for like, four years now.  “Fraser, you’ve had good oranges, right?  I mean ones that are sweet and juicy and not all mushy?”

 

“Certainly,” he says.  “One of the pleasures of living in Chicago is the ready availability of reasonably fresh produce.”

 

I’m distracted for a second trying to remember if I’ve ever heard Fraser say that there’s anything he likes about Chicago, and stomping down the urge to ask what other _pleasures_ are on his list. 

 

“So why are you eating that?” I ask, keeping my eye on the conversational ball.

 

“Waste not, want not,” he says, and yeah, I should have expected he’d say something like that.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I grew up poor, my mom used to say that all the time.  But see, Fraser, waste is when you throw away something that’s still usable.  It’s not waste when you throw out food that has gone bad.  That’s, like, good hygiene.  Nobody wants to eat an orange like that.”

 

“Well, of course you’re right, no one would choose to do so given a better option,” he says, in that way that means he’s not actually conceding your point at all.  “But to someone sufficiently hungry—someone without the means to buy a decent meal, or someone on a trek through the wilderness with limited supplies—“

 

“Yeah, okay, Fraser, I get it.  But here’s the point: _you_ don’t have to eat that orange.  You’ve got money for dinner, and if you didn’t, I’d spot you.  And you’re not in the wilderness, you’re in the middle of a city full of grocery stores, not to mention that there’s a whole freaking bowl of oranges back in there, you could just go get one that isn’t half-rotted.”  I’m mostly just trying to jerk his chain, here, arguing for the fun of it, because it’s fun to argue with Fraser when it’s about something stupid and unimportant, and because I’m 99% sure it amuses him just like it amuses me, although I can never be quite sure because the guy’s got a hell of a poker face, even though most people don’t get that.  I was kind of slow to catch on, myself.

 

But Fraser doesn’t hit that argument-ball back to me.  Instead, he’s looking down at that half-orange in his hand, not saying anything.  Just when I’m starting to wonder what the hell I said to piss him off, he says, real calm and quiet and not sounding pissed off at all:

 

“When I was growing up, there was always an orange in my stocking on Christmas morning.  You have to realize, it’s difficult to get supplies up there in winter, and more so at the time.  As a rule, we didn’t see fresh fruit or vegetables in the winter; we ate preserved.  But somehow, my grandparents always managed to arrange that Christmas orange.  Of course, by the time an orange is shipped all the way to a remote outpost in the Yukon at the end of December, it isn’t always as fresh as one might desire.  But no matter what condition the orange was in, it was always. . .remarkable.  Consuming it was a ritual for me.  A private. . .immersion. . .in sensual pleasure.  One I looked forward to.”

 

He looks sideways up at me, a little ironic, a little apologetic, and a lot. . .I don’t know, sad? nostalgic? something else?  And did the word _sensual_ just come out of his mouth?  Of course it did, he’s perfectly comfortable talking about the pleasures of the flesh when it’s about sweat lodges or jogging or oranges.

 

“Jesus, Fraser,” I say after a while.  “That’s. . .that’s like the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard.”

 

He flinches, and oh boy, now the statue-face is slamming into place, and I can see where that was a dumb way to put it, but I put my hand on his arm to stop him from getting up and leaving, stop him from pulling away from me, hold him in place while I explain, because this is important, damn it.

 

“All right, sorry, I didn’t mean it that way, but Christ, you should listen to yourself sometimes.  I mean, I get it, I get what you’re saying, when you don’t hardly have nothing, any treat you get your hands on is a big fucking deal, something you treasure.  I know all about that, okay, not with oranges, but you know what, Fraser?  I don’t think you told me that story because you wanted to tell me something about oranges.  Did you?”

 

I’ve got his full attention.  Fraser’s gone even more still than normal, his arm under my hand might as well be carved out of stone except for the heat radiating through his wool sleeve.  But he’s turned his head to face me full-on, and his eyes are glued to my face, and the tip of his tongue is peeking out of the corner of his mouth, which normally means he’s either thinking or hurting.

 

“No,” he says slowly into my pause for breath.  I wait to see if he’s going to say more, but he doesn’t, so I launch back into my rant.

 

“Right, see, here’s the thing that pisses me off, Fraser.  Watching you acting like you’ve got to make do with garbage, with scraps of what other people throw away, when you’re surrounded by a five star fucking buffet, right there waiting for you to reach out and take whatever you fucking want.  You don’t have to eat this shit, Fraser!” and I grab the orange out of his hand and fling it down to splatter on the concrete.  My heart is pounding, and I don’t know why I’m so angry, and part of me is expecting him to haul off and sock me one, although if there’s one thing that this whole fucking awful week has been about, it’s that Fraser can’t be pushed into acting like a caveman. Unlike the rest of us.

 

He’s still staring at me, unmoving.  But not statue-faced, no.  He looks. . .lost, like he did when he turned to see me pulling up beside him by the skating rink, when he thought we’d all turned our backs on him and everything he cares about.  That look just about killed me then, and it does now.

 

“Fraser,” I say, soft now.  “I know there’s no one who—who’s good enough, who’s as good as you are.  We all fall short, and hell, I don’t know how you get up in the morning knowing that the world’s never going to be perfect and no one but you is crazy enough to think different.  So maybe we’re all a bunch of rotten oranges to you, and I’m sorry, you don’t know how sorry I am about that, but—“

 

“No.”  Fraser’s voice is real soft, but it cuts through my flood of words.  His eyes are on me; they glint out of the shadow he’s sitting in.

 

“Uh.  No, what?” I ask.

 

“No, you’re not.  Not rotten.”

 

I’m pinned by those eyes, and all of a sudden there’s a question there, and I don’t know what it is, but then out of the corner of my eye I see that his left hand has come up and is hovering a couple of inches away from my face.  I’m not sure what he’s asking, exactly, but I nod a little and tilt my head a little, and that big, hot hand lays itself across my cheek and the breath leaks out of me in a little sigh. 

 

“A few blemishes on the skin, a superficial bruise or two,” he says in that infuriating deadpan lecture voice of his, except that he can’t do it, there’s a tremble under that smooth tone.  “The fruit’s sound and sweet, underneath.”

 

“Bite me,” I mutter, reflexively, not thinking about how that sounds with us sitting here like this, his hand on my face.

 

“Gladly,” he breathes, and maybe that’s a snappy comeback, but if so, it’s the deadly-serious kind, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with that, I’m afraid to even _breathe_ here any more, because I’m suddenly terrified that if I do something terribly fragile is going to smash to pieces.

 

Fraser’s thumb brushes lightly over my lips, and—okay—I brush a hint of a little kiss against it, and Fraser hisses, his eyes getting even wider, which I wouldn’t have thought was possible.

 

I reach over and put my hands on his shoulders, firm but gentle.  He jerks his hand away from my face.  I give my head a little shake, give his shoulders a squeeze.

 

“You—“ I have to clear my throat.  “You’re the one looks like he got bounced around in the bottom of the fruit truck.”  I touch his cheek, just under the bruise Warfield’s goons left there.  He doesn’t make a sound, or a move.  Just looks at me.

 

“This what you want?” I ask him, and fuck me if he doesn’t nod, helplessly, like he’s hypnotized, his eyes still locked on mine.

 

“Then take it,” I whisper.  “It’s yours.  I’m yours.”

 

He shakes his head, but his hands reach out for my face, both of them this time.  He cradles my head, pulls me towards him as he leans forwards and touches his lips to mine.  I kiss him gently but hard enough to let him know I’m with the program, and he groans, and that sound isn’t about sex, it’s about need, it’s about a whole fucking lifetime without oranges, and screw the metaphor, I pull him into my arms and hold him tight and he clamps his arms around me and breathes raggedly into my ear.

 

“It’s almost Christmas, Fraser,” I tell him.  “I can’t give you a perfect world, wish I could.  But anything in my power, it’s yours.”

 

“Take me home?” he whispers.  I wonder if he means the Consulate or, fuck, Canada, which would really be jumping off the deep end, but I meant what I said.  But then he goes, “Take me home with you?”

 

So, yeah.  I do that.


End file.
